


Happy Christmas, Jeeves

by Gracierocket



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse, Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 10:53:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5454050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gracierocket/pseuds/Gracierocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Happy Yuletide Ione!  I hope it's a lovely one!</p><p>On the morning of Christmas Eve, Bertie receives no fewer than five telegrams from Gussie.  An adventure calls, and he hasn't even finished breakfast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ione](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ione/gifts).



I don't know if I've ever mentioned it to you before, but I have a horror of telegrams. Ask anyone. “What,” you will say, “is guaranteed to turn that man of iron into a gibbering wreck unable to make his way with equanimity through the last of the kippers,” and the answer that will bounce resoundingly off the rafters will be: telegrams. Not single telegrams, you understand. Those likely to include such simple missives as “Bertie you silly ass. Why not at drones.”, or “Darts tournament delayed in favour of bread roll battle. Bring ammunition.” No, the telegrams liable to make me turn away the last of the kippers with a wan smile and a hand passed across the b. are those that come in swarms. It never ends well, you see. A pack of the blighters arrives on the platter and the cry goes out around the halls that Bertram is for it. So when Jeeves shimmered in on Christmas Eve morning with no fewer than five of the things, I am not ashamed to say that I quaked. Nevertheless, we Woosters fought at Agincourt, and it must have been some of the old fighting spirit that got into me as I reached out to take the hoard, as my hand didn't shake at all.

“Rather a lot of telegrams, Jeeves,” I said, keen to lighten the mood.

“Yes, sir,” he said, and I detected, as I expected I would, a note of reserve in his voice. You see, for the past week or so the Wooster household, far from being the harmonious place of repose spoken of in legend and song, had been the site of a sort of quiet war of attrition over the subject of tartan handkerchiefs. I had bought six of the things, rather natty ones I thought, in purple and red. Jeeves, of course, had taken his usual puritanical view of the matter and, since both of us were unyielding, the milk of human kindness, if that's the phrase I want, had rather gone out of our tete a tetes.

Seeing I would get no sympathy from that quarter, I steeled myself to the task and opened the first telegram.

“Bertie,” it began. A strong opening, I felt. “Come at once. Madeline and I terrorised by aunt. Gussie.”

I raised an austere eyebrow, a gesture I had only recently perfected, and was keen to put in the hours with, and then moved on to the next.

“When say terrorised mean in all seriousness. Aunt insisting on brisk morning strolls before breakfast. Gussie.”

The next one continued in the same vein.

“Get out of bed fathead. Madeline and baby exhausted and aunt making all insufferable. Gussie.”

The next took a more practical line.

“In Bassett stronghold by the way. Bassett Glossop and all away on cruise. Just Madeline baby self and tyrant aunt. Gussie.”

It was only in the last missive that Gussie really got down to the nub of the matter.

“Need you come be unpleasant to aunt and drive out. Can't do self as aunt holding purse strings. Come at once. Gussie”

I handed the mountain of paper weakly to Jeeves, who skimmed the whole with alacrity.

“Well, Jeeves?” I said.

“It seems, sir, that Mr Fink-Nottle wishes you to drive down to Totleigh Towers in order to expedite his aunt's departure from the house by means of your own antisocial behaviour.”

“That was my reading too, Jeeves,” I said, having followed him closely. “But it can't be done. Hardly a chivalrous plan, what?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Aunts, no matter how tyrannical, must not be trodden over roughly by passing house guests.”

“Quite so, sir.”

“And yet, Gussie can hardly be left to spend Christmas in the thrall of this dragon in aunt's form.”

“It does seem that such an eventuality would lack a certain festive cheer, sir.”

“So what's to be done, Jeeves?”

“Well, sir, it strikes me that a man alone in a large house with an exhausted wife and a tyrannical aunt stands a much lower chance of success than than a man who knows that at his back stands a comrade in arms.”

“My presence might shift the balance, you mean? Solidarity the birth of the stiff upper lip?”

“Precisely, sir.”

I mused on this for a while. I could see his argument, of course. While I would not go so far as to say that I have ever actually stood up to my Aunt Agatha, I have certainly gone so far, on occasion, as to rise part way out of my chair, and it has happened on those occasions when I have felt that there was someone in my corner. I could certainly believe that Gussie's lot might be rather improved by the presence of Bertram. 

Then again, there was, of course, the question of Christmas dinner. I am wont to spend Christmas with my Aunt Dahlia, that being the one day of the year when an invitation to the young nephew to sample the delights of her superb cook is always forthcoming, and it was with a heart that was far from calm that I contemplated voluntarily depriving myself of that master's work.

“I am thinking,” I said to Jeeves, “of Anatole's Christmas dinner.”

It is a testament to the seriousness of the situation that despite our recent spat, the look Jeeves flung in my direction was one of deepest sympathy.

“Indeed, sir,” he said, and I found it stirred my finer qualities. 

“Still,” I continued, “Better a dry crust, if that's the phrase I want...”

“Indeed, sir. Better a dry morsel with quiet than a house of feasting with strife.”

“In that case, I said, better get out the two seater.”


	2. Chapter 2

A quick bath and a quick lunch and we were off, motoring out of the metropolis. I won't say that I approached my altered Christmas plans with a spring in my step exactly – trading Anatole for a tyrannical aunt would, without explanation, seem like madness – but as we motored along through the perfect winter morning I felt my spirits begin to lift. The sky was so completely clear that it had even coaxed out a couple of birds who were tootling merrily to themselves as we drove along, and the sight of the occasional Christmas tree in a lighted window made me feel decidedly well disposed to the English countryside, and to mankind in general.

As the two seater swept into the drive at Totleigh Towers my spirits lifted even further as I remembered that, aunt or no aunt, this was a house which I could at least be sure was entirely Bassett-less, old Pop having gone away on a winter cruise, leaving daughter and son in law in sole custody of house and home.

The door was opened by a pleasant faced maid, and we were ushered straight in to meet our hosts. Gussie sprang up as if he'd sat on a tack and hurried over.

“Bertie!” he said. He seemed pleased to see me, and I couldn't blame him. The poor old newt fancier looked at his wits' end. I shuffled over to meet the latest Fink-Nottle. Madeline looked up at me, her eyes like saucers.

“Oh Bertie,” she said, in a low voice. “Perhaps it was wrong of us to ask you here, but we were in such dire need, and...”

“Oh, don't mention it!” I breezed. “Is this the new charmer?” I meant the baby, of course.

“Isn't she an angel?” breathed Madeline.

“Oh, rather,” I said, and I reached down to give the little creature a tickle. I've always had a bit of a way with babies. They take to me. Seeing Bertram for the first time they think to themselves, here is a kindred spirit. I was rewarded with a laugh from the infant, and an echoing one from the maid, who had come to sit beside Madeline. Madeline started, as if she'd just noticed the girl was there.

“Oh, Bertie, this is our new maid, Honoria. She is just wonderful with little Christabelle.”

On which cue, the baby threw back its head and screamed. I presumed it was responding as I'm sure anyone would to being landed with a stinker like 'Christabelle' as a life-long moniker, but before I could discuss the matter with the unfortunate child, the maid had whipped her up and taken her out of the room.

As soon as the maid left, Gussie shuffled over.

“Bertie,” he said. “Bertie.”

I waited politely, in case he wanted to say it again.

“You must be a beast to her, Bertie. Bury every chivalrous fibre in your being and become a brute. That is what is required to rid us of this woman.”

“Well, that's all very well,” I said, “but, leaving aside the moral arguments for the time being, why do you need me? Surely you're more than capable of being beastly to an aunt without giving me the dirty work.”

“Oh, don't be a silly ass, Bertie,” he replied. 

“I'm not.”

“You are.”

“I'm not.”

“You are. You always are. I can't very well go around being beastly to an aunt who has promised to lend my father in law thirty thousand pounds.”

“Ah,” I said, as light began to dawn.

“You may very well 'ah'” said Gussy, stiffly, “but that's what she said. She said she was seriously considering lending her distant cousin the money he needed and she would stay in the house until he returned.

“Ah,” I said again. I felt it hadn't been given a good enough innings the first time. “Pal of old Pop Bassett, is she?”

“They've never met, apparently. But she's just been widowed and is apparently inclined to throw the stuff around like water.”

“Aha,” I said, varying my contributions a bit.

Whatever repartee Gussie had been about to respond with was cut short when the door opened. I won't swear to it, but I distinctly remember feeling a slight chill in the air as it did so. Moments later, the aunt entered. She was the sort of woman who usually gets described as formidable. At least seven feet tall, and with the sort of jawline you could use as a set square. She bore down on me. I met her with a steely gaze, feeling it was best to start on a strong note.

“Augustus,” she said in a voice like an avalanche, “will you be so good as to introduce me to our new guest?”

Gussie stepped forward and mumbled something even I couldn't make out. It seemed to do the trick, however, because the aunt replied in a booming voice.

“Bertie Wooster! Of course, Augustus has told me so much about you.”

“Oh ah?” I said, returning to an earlier theme.

“I am Audrey Rumpole, Gussie's aunt.”

I looked blankly at Gussie, who jumped in with a set of syllables which, when put together, might just have been understood to mean that it was time to change for dinner.


	3. Chapter 3

No sooner had I closed the door and opened my mouth to pour my troubles into Jeeves' breast than the door burst open again and Gussie stalked in.

“Bertie!” he said.

I raised an expressive eyebrow.

“What's happened to your face?” said Gussie, stopping in his tracks.

“Nothing has happened to my face,” I replied with hauteur. “I was merely raising an eyebrow at the degree of commotion over such a clearly manageable aunt.”

“Manageable?” breathed Gussie.

“Naturally,” I said, and I laughed suavely. “All she needs is a firm, manly hand. Observe at dinner, and follow my lead.”

“So you aren't going to beastly to her?”

“Certainly not. It would be beneath my dignity. I will, however, solve your problem.”

It is no exaggeration to say that at my words, Gussie threw up his arms in despair before leaving the room, almost colliding with Jeeves on the way in.

“I say, Jeeves,” I said, once Gussie had gone, “I've just had the most remarkable idea.”

Jeeves pricked up his ears, instantly agog to hear what the young master had to say.

“Allow me to draw your mind back, if I may, to a day I do not bring up lightly. The day, Jeeves, of the Market Snodsbury prize giving.”

Jeeves seemed about to interrupt, but I waved a hand.

“No no, Jeeves, allow me to finish. You will, I am sure, remember Gussie's conduct on that occasion and the way he laid into, among other people, me. Quite inappropriate for a public prize giving, naturally.”

“Naturally, sir.”

“And yet one considers the confidence Gussie had on that day; the verve, Jeeves, the vim, the vigour.”

“Undoubtedly, sir.”

“You follow my train of thought, I am sure.”

“Indeed, sir, but...”

“But me no buts, Jeeves, I have foreseen your next objection, vis., that Gussie is unlikely to consent to getting sozzled. Well, there I have information you do not. At the Drones last week, while in conversation with young Catsmeat Purbright, I came into possession of the following essential tidbit: Gussie Fink-Nottle believes that mulled wine is non-alcoholic. He is under the impression that the heating process boils off the alcohol. Therefore, if mulled wine may be procured, mulled wine may be imbibed by that limp fish. Vim and vigour result, and the tyrannising aunt, confronted by a strong man, will naturally yield to his authority.”

Jeeves was silent.

“Well, Jeeves?” I said.

“Well, sir, it seems to me that the plan may have certain drawbacks...”

Naturally, I saw this naysaying for what it was. Jeeves, still disgruntled about the handkerchiefs, was unwilling to go above and beyond for the young master. I drew myself up.

“Very well, Jeeves, if that is how you feel about the matter, then there is nothing more to say. Kindly go and enquire of the maid whether mulled wine may be procured, and lay out my tartan handkerchief. I intend to wear it in my breast pocket for dinner.”

Jeeves left the room in silence. 

I won't say I didn't feel a certain apprehension when I went down to dinner some forty-five minutes later to find Gussie already on his third glass and Madeline staring balefully at him, but I screwed my courage to the sticking place, as Jeeves would have it, and got on with things.

“You ought to feed the child banana, Madeline,” the aunt was declaiming. “Potassium is essential. Unless you want the child to grow up weak eyed and weak brained.”

“Don't see why she should.” Gussie's voice piped up from the far end of the table. I won't say it was a loud interjection, but it had the general effect of a bomb going off in the soup canteen. Everyone turned and stared at him. Gussie gripped the stem of his glass defiantly, and then finished the contents in one gulp.

“This is awfully good stuff, Bertie,” he said. “I feel sort of cheerful, less inclined than usual to listen to the ramblings of dissolute aunts.”

Well, I could have told him he'd gone too far. Showing a strong, manly countenance is one thing, but calling a respectable aunt a dissolute really is quite another. I didn't have the opportunity, however, because before I could speak, the aunt intervened on her own behalf.

“I will not be offended in this manner.”

“Well, don't take offence then,” said Gussie with a peaceable wave of his hand.

“You should apologise immediately, young man.”

“All right,” he said. “You go first.”

“I have nothing to apologise for.”

“Oh, well, if you don't think so,” said Gussie, a glint coming into his eye. “Of course, if it was me I'd feel inclined to apologise for bossing your hostess around and having a face like an old trout, but it's up to you.”

Mrs Rumpole stood up. I sat resolute, refusing to bow to the urge to hide under the table, as the aunt spoke.

“I will not stay here to be insulted. I will leave first thing in the morning. Josie,” she added, to the maid, “be so good as to pack my things.”

She swept out of the room, leaving a stunned silence in her wake. Well, it would have been a stunned silence except that Gussie had just discovered the musical noise a glass makes if you wet your finger and run it along the rim, and it had filled him with joyous abandon.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of movement and an enormous white butterfly leapt into Gussie's arms. It took me a moment to realise it was Madeline, who now sat cooing in Gussie's lap.

“Oh, my brave boy. Oh, my Gussie.”

I made my excuses and went upstairs.


	4. Chapter 4

When I awoke on Christmas morning, I don't mind telling you I was a very long way from the sort of mood in which one eats satsumas while humming a few bars of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”. Mrs Rumpole was leaving today, presumably having revised her plan to give Pop Bassett thirty thousand of the necessary. Gussie was, as even his most ardent supporters would admit, directly responsible, and, greatest pain of all, I woke in the knowledge that the day would close without my having partaken in even the slimmest morsel of Anatole's cooking. 

I did consider hopping straight in the two seater and making it back to London before the old flesh and blood was even back from Church, but more compassionate counsels prevailed. What, I asked myself, would be the cost? I would be leaving this young family to spend Christmas day looking out on the bleak midwinter, as I have sometimes heard Jeeves refer to it, and listening to the moaning of the frosty winds. I entertained the idea of rescuing them from this lonely abode and bringing them back to London with me, but the thought of my Aunt Dahlia's face were I to turn up on the doorstep with two extra house guests stayed my hand. Only one course of action presented itself to me as being in the least suitable. I must go downstairs and attempt to bring a bit of the good will to all men spirit to the breakfast table.

As it turned out, I arrived downstairs just in time to witness the closing act in a Greek tragedy. I had bounded in full of good intentions, and had just roused out the first couple of verses of a cheery “Merry Gentlemen” when I saw that the tone was all wrong. Mrs Rumpole was sitting on the sofa looking distraught, with Madeline beside her like a sort of miserable maid in waiting. Gussie walked over sombrely.

“We have been burgled, Bertie. My aunt's diamond earrings have been stolen, and so has Madeline's wedding tiara.”

“It's almost like fate, Bertie,” said Madeline, throatily. “I had it out only yesterday to show it to Josie, my new maid, you know. I feel now as though it wanted to say goodbye before going back to adorn the head of some fairy queen.”

“Well, at least you're taking it philosophically,” I said, “but what's to be done.”

The aunt looked up. “We must search the domestic staff,” she said.

I opened my mouth to object. The domestic staff in res. at present consisted of an elderly housekeeper, Josie, the new maid who was so popular with Christabelle, and Jeeves. Before I could utter a word, however, Gussie piped up and, plainly thinking he had ground to make up, occupied the available airwaves with about twenty minutes of yes indeeding. 

I walked back upstairs with a heavy heart, contemplating the task before me. I mean to say, Jeeves and I may have our differences in the matter of tartan handkerchiefs, but when it comes to questions of moral character we see perfectly eye to eye. Above suspicion doesn't cover it.

I walked into the room, deciding that the plain, manly approach was best.

“Jeeves,” I said. “There has been a burglary. Gussie's aunt has lost a pair of diamond earrings and is insisting that all the domestic staff are to be searched.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Jeeves. “I cannot recommend that course of action as I have the diamond earrings about my person.”

To my astonishment he pulled from his pocket a small box and opened it to reveal a pair of large diamond earrings.


	5. Chapter 5

“Jeeves!” I said. “The diamond earrings!” 

“Yes, sir.”

“But how..?”

“I found them amongst my personal belongings when I was searching for my best tie-pin, sir. It is likely that, had I not been required to unpack my suitcase entirely, I would not have discovered them at all.”

“Planted on you, what?”

“It seems so, sir.”

“But,” I said, getting to the nub of the matter, “why?”

“I have a theory on that subject, sir, but it is not yet complete,” he replied.

“And you don't wish to bring it struggling into the world, half-formed,” I said, keenly.

“Precisely, sir.”

“Then what do we do, Jeeves?”

“Well, sir,” he replied, and I marvelled at his unshaken demeanour, “if my suspicions are correct, the situation can best be resolved with the aid of a policeman.”

“A policeman, Jeeves?”

“Indeed, sir.”

I have long known better than to question the judgement of this titan of intellect, especially when I knew for a fact that he had been getting in at the kippers for the past week at least. I gave a nod.

“If it is a policeman you require, Jeeves, then a policeman you shall have.”

It was with me the work of a moment to be out of the bedroom door and down the stairs. I called in on the others on my way past to put them abreast of the scheme. I thought I detected a note of coolness towards the plan from the aunt, but I was out in the Christmas morning before she could give more than an “oh indeed.”

I didn't, frankly, hold out much hope of running into a policeman at eleven o'clock on Christmas morning. I've had my disagreements with the public arm of the law, but even I won't deny them the right to a late start and a mince pie on Christmas morning.

I was startled, therefore, to discover one walking towards me before I'd gone ten yards down the street. Before me was undoubtedly the most finely attired policeman I had ever seen. True, he wore a blue uniform and an unmistakable policeman's hat, but there the familiarity ended. Regular readers will know that I once contributed an article to my Aunt Dahlia's publication, Milady's Boudoir, titled “What the Well Dressed Man is Wearing”, and this young policeman clearly agreed with me on every point. The suit was perfectly tailored, and the chap had even finished off the effect with a monocle. The general effect was of a peacock earning a few extra coins Monday to Friday.

“Excuse me, officer,” I said, wishing to start proceedings off on a civil note.

The officer advanced, and as he got closer, I started.

“Psmith?” I said.

“Comrade Wooster,” he replied, gazing at me through his monocle with a look of almost paternal affection.

I should perhaps mention that Psmith is an old Drones club compatriot of mine, and as nice an arm with a bread roll as you will ever have the pleasure of hiding behind a table with. The last I had heard, he had been working as a secretary for young Freddie Threepwood's father down at Blandings Castle, so his new role as the active arm of the law took me rather by surprise.

“So you're a policeman now, are you?” I asked, courteously.

Psmith looked down at his outfit with, I thought, a touch of complacency.

“It certainly seems hard to deny it,” he said. “Lesser men might do so, but I, looking down on the bold blue and feeling on my head the sturdy helmet of a man immune to a bonk on the head from even the most hearty of sticks, must concur that it certainly seems that I am now a policeman. Indeed, Comrade, between such friends as the two of us, how can I entertain the idea of telling you anything else? I am a copper, a boy in blue, one of the fuzz. From now on, call me Bill.”

“Well,” I said, getting right down to it, “That's rather lucky. I was looking for a policeman particularly, you see.”

“That doesn't surprise me in the least,” replied Psmith, looking at me solemnly through his monocle. “For who, on a crisp Christmas morning, does not think to himself, 'this day could only be improved by a representative of the laws of our fine nation.' But in your case, Comrade Wooster, I suspect your motives are rather more specific. If you will indulge me for long enough to espouse a pet theory-”

I nodded genially.

“-then I will venture to suggest that a distant aunt who is staying for Christmas has recently had a pair of diamond earrings stolen, and is as we speak in the process of searching the domestic staff for her baubles.”

I looked at him in astonishment, but he merely smiled affectionately.

“You are astonished, Comrade. But there is more. Some other item, of much greater value than the earrings, has also disappeared.”

“Madeline's tiara,” I concurred.

“Very likely,” said Psmith. “I bow to your judgement on the matter of tiaras. I also call to the dock my suspicion that the house has recently acquired a rather nice young maid, popular with all. You stand amazed, but really, for one of the boys in blue this is all in a day's work. For what policeman worth his salt cannot walk into a new situation and instantly understand everything there is to be understood about it. Just as you, Comrade, walk into the final round of a darts tournament in perfect possession of all the salient facts, so I, walking into what we may with a wry smile refer to as my tournament, am in full possession of all but the meanest details. Come, lead the way. I sense that there is work to be done this day.”


	6. Chapter 6

By the time I returned with Psmith in tow, the searching was already well underway. The cook and the housekeeper had already been searched and dismissed, and only Jeeves and the new maid remained.

At the sight of self and policeman, the aunt blanched.

“Well, really, Mr Wooster,” she said, “I hardly think it is necessary to waste the time of this officer over a small domestic matter.”

I drew myself up.

“Madam,” I said, imposingly, “a crime has been committed. And when a crime has been committed, one summons a policeman.”

My logic was flawless, and she saw it. “Very well,” she said, and the search continued.

I'll admit I was a little nervous when Psmith, zealous in his new role, searched Jeeves, but as I should have known all along, Jeeves was cleared. I could see Gussie looking profoundly relieved, but I was surprised, when I happened to glance at the aunt's face, to see genuine amazement there.

Still, the search continued swiftly, and to everyone's surprise, the diamond earrings were duly found in Josie the maid's apron pocket.

Josie looked up at Mrs Rumpole, and, having given a look that would have melted the coldest heart, murmured an 'I'm sorry, Ma'am.'

I happened to be staring around the room with my mouth open at that moment, and as I did so I happened to catch a glance exchanged between Psmith and Jeeves, of all people. I had no idea then what it meant, but I knew at once that something more was afoot.

“Well, miss,” said Psmith, “it's down to the station with you and no mistake.”

The girl made no objection, but to my amazement (it was one of those days when your mouth spends more time gaping in astonishment than not), the aunt piped up and meek as a lamb said she didn't think there was any need for that sort of thing and she'd got her earrings back anyway and wasn't it Christmas after all.

Psmith was having none of this. “The law, Ma'am, is the law,” he said. “Where would we be if the essential laws that govern our fair land were but discriminately imposed? If one woman were to find herself incarcerated for life for the stealing of a pair of diamond earrings while the other walked free because she had been so fortunate as to be caught on Christmas morning? Nothing doing, I'm afraid. You forget, perhaps, that this young person is still, circumstantial evidence would suggest, in full possession of a jewelled tiara – forgive me-”

Here he broke off and addressed himself to Madeline.

“I presume the tiara in question was jewelled?”

Madeline nodded.

“A jewelled tiara,” Psmith continued, “which, if your point of view were to be upheld, she must be permitted to abscond with, selling it to the first crooked jeweller she could lay hands on. No,” he concluded, “it must not be. Much as your generous spirit does you credit, Ma'am, for as long as that tiara remains in its hiding place, this young person must remain in the cells at the station or, latterly, even at Newgate.”

My attention was suddenly caught by the aunt. She appeared to be wrestling with something. Her face had turned a sort of puce colour and her breathing was so sharp I started eying the distance to the nearest sofa, wondering how far Gussie and I would have to carry her if this behaviour continued along its logical course. Then suddenly, she opened her handbag and in one smooth movement whipped out the tiara.

“Leave the girl,” she said. “Take me to prison in her place. The crime is all mine.”


	7. Chapter 7

Well, by this point my mouth had been open for so long that I wouldn't have taken it amiss if a couple of sparrows had set up home there, so I went as far as a half-articulated “Wha?” to ease the strain a little.

Looking around the room, however, I could see that the ratio of mouths slackly open in surprise, and mouths clamped shut without it was only about thirty/seventy. Madeline and Gussie were both strongly in my camp, gazing at each other with, as I have heard Jeeves refer to it, a wild surmise, but Jeeves himself, Psmith, Josie the maid and the aunt all looked decidedly un-baffled.

Psmith smiled benevolently on all of us.

“Not at all, my dear aunt, if” he said as an afterthought, “if that is your real title. I see you are all rather fugged. Allow me your attention for but a moment, and I shall endeavour to clear the mists away and leave only bright understanding. This woman is no aunt. She has been touring the country houses of Britain for the whole season running this fiendish scheme of hers. The plan is so simple that even a humble copper such as myself can see the elegance of it. She arrives at a house in the guise of a distant aunt, instates herself on the promise of future remuneration, and then steals the most valuable trinkets in it. At the same moment, she plants her own diamond earrings on a trusted member of the domestic staff so that, when they are found, the other theft is assumed to have come from the same source. And then, her work done, she departs, leaving a trail of broken hearts in her wake.”

At this, Psmith turned to the aunt.

“You will not, I suppose, remember me. When last we met I was disguised as an honest policeman for the Market Blandings Christmas pantomime.” 

He looked down at his attire, remembering himself.

“I suppose I may have overdone the costume a little, but one does want to look one's best for one's public. Nevertheless, on that occasion, I was wearing a heavy beard, so on the day you caused me to be accused of stealing a diamond necklace from Lady Constance, and to subsequently lose my position, I surmised that you were not privy to a comprehensive glance at my face. This has been the essence of my plan. I left Blandings immediately, installed my lovely wife and young son at the local inn, and started out on my adventures. Imagine the scene, as the wronged man steps out to undo the slur on his good name and be reinstated before Christmas is over. What, I asked myself, could be a better present for my patient wife than the knowledge that we will not be upping sticks and seeking our fortunes elsewhere in the new year? She understood, as no other could, the fortitude required to go out wearing a shade of blue which, despite my ministrations, is about as acceptable to polite society as Comrade Wooster's tartan handkerchief. A policeman was essential to the plan, and so as a policeman I went.”

I waggled a finger. I decided that at this time of crisis I would waive the comment about my handkerchief and keep the conversation flowing on the right topic. 

“But how did you know,” I said, fixing him with an attentive look, “that the aunt, or faux-aunt, as we should now call her, would not allow the maid to be taken to the station in place of Jeeves?”

At this, I heard a soft cough from the man himself.

“I fancy, sir, that I may be able to provide illumination on that point,” said Jeeves. “Shortly after we arrived in this house it became apparent to me that the new maid, Josie, is Mrs Rumpole's daughter. Furthermore, it seemed clear to me that Josie's frequent contact with the domestic staff at the houses she visits has caused her to become increasingly disillusioned with her mother's plan of allowing them to suffer for her gain.”

At this, Josie piped up.

“I'm sorry, Ma, but it isn't right. This young man has lost his position. At Christmas. And he would have gone to jail but for how well he's thought of in that house.”

“Quite so,” said Psmith. “Since there was no actual evidence that I was the criminal mastermind who had finally succeeded in lifting the necklace that is so very much sought-after by a certain kind of intellect, Lord Emsworth stretched a point and decided that I should simply lose my job rather than my freedom.”

He paused, and turned his attention once more to the faux-aunt.

“The game is up, Madam. I see your packed bag is ready at your feet. Kindly open it and reveal to your mystified public the full extent of your mastery of the art to which you have devoted yourself so assiduously.”

All eyes turned to the aunt. Her eyes darted to the door and back, and I could see she was thinking about how far she could reasonably get with the swag. I could have told her it was hopeless. Totleigh Towers is without a train station, so it would have been a long slog on foot with a heavy bag even if she'd got out of the door.

Her reasoning seemed to agree with mine, and after one more lingering look at the road to freedom, she opened the bag. First to emerge was Lady Constance's diamonds. Psmith took them gently from her hands and pocketed them. After that came five or six other items that looked almost as valuable – a ruby encrusted pocket watch, some emerald earrings, another set of diamonds, and finally, something I recognised.

“What, in the name of all that laughs in the sunshine, is that?” said Psmith. “It looks like a drunken bull with its middle cut out.”

Here, of course, I was able to help him.

“That,” I said, “is an eighteenth century cow creamer, and it belongs to my Uncle, Tom Travers.”


	8. Chapter 8

This revelation attracted no more than mild interest from the room, and I couldn't hold it against them.

The treasure trove had now been unpacked, and the faux-aunt was looking back and forth between her captors with a hunted look.

Young Christabelle chose this moment to break the suspense with a peerless yell, and Josie hurried over to the child.

“Josie.” The aunt's voice echoed around the room. “Put down that child.”

Josie looked at her, and disobeyed, though I could see the effort it was costing her.

“Now, look here,” I said, decisively. “I think it's best you were off. The police station won't be open today, and we can hardly keep you locked up in the pantry until Boxing Day is over. Perhaps if you swore you wouldn't do it again, and gave us a list of all the houses these things came from, you could just be on your way.”

She looked at me. Then she looked at her daughter.

“We are leaving,” she said.

Josie looked pleadingly at Madeline, who nodded at her, eyes already starting with tears.

“I'm not coming with you, Ma. If the family don't mind it, I shall stay here. Christabelle is such a lovely child, and I've been happier here these last few days than I was for months before.”

Without a word, the faux-aunt turned on her heel, wrapped her coat about her, and walked purposefully out into the winter sun.

“Well,” said Psmith, the first to recover himself. “I suppose I ought to be off too. I left Eve and young Michael at the inn in the village, and I must go and see what meagre fare they can rustle up in lieu of a Christmas meal. I shall console myself in the knowledge that Joseph must have felt similarly, returning to his wife with a hunk of bread and the promise of the best spot on the hay.”

“One moment,” I said, raising a finger. “I think I have a rather better idea. Josie, run into the village, if you will be so kind, and deliver a telegram for me.”

I took out a piece of paper and wrote the short message: “Aunt Dahlia. Returning for Christmas dinner. If not inconvenient bringing Uncle Tom's cow creamer four house guests two infants. Hope you will feel fair exchange under circs. Bertie.”

The message despatched, I returned to my room to find Jeeves already packing the last of my things.

“Quite an unexpected turn of events, Jeeves,” I said.

“Indeed, sir,” he replied.

“One thing still troubles me, though,” I continued. “How did you know that Josie was Mrs Rumpole's daughter?”

“It was quite simple, sir. The two were pretending to have never met, and yet when the staff were gathered and about to serve dinner last night, Josie remarked that the lady upstairs would probably dispense with the soup course. From this admission of past intimacy, and with the diamond earrings in my possession – obviously planted there by Josie - it was a simple matter to secure a tete a tete to establish the nature of their relationship, and Josie's increasing dissatisfaction with the criminal life. She was initially reluctant to test her mother's love for her against her avarice, but eventually agreed with, if I may say so, most satisfactory results.”

“Certainly you may say so, Jeeves,” I replied cordially. I hesitated. At times such as these, I felt, with all harmonious downstairs and the prospect of Anatole's cooking casting a rosy glow on the horizon, much might be ventured to secure the happiness of one who had given so much.

“Jeeves,” I said, “You may dispose of the tartan handkerchiefs at your earliest convenience.”

“Thank you, sir,” he replied. “I have already given them to Josie for her use with the baby.”

“Ah,” I said. “Very good, Jeeves. Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, sir,” said Jeeves.


End file.
